"Why Now?"

“Why Now?”

The first time he tried to come back into her life, Rebbecca was eight. Eight years old, but had lived a hundred with the beatings of her and death blows dealt to her mother; emotional scarring, like a cat scratch healed white on her arm, but never fades. He’d been in prison since she was four, and the memories scared her to the point where she had wet her pants.

He wanted to see his daughter, but for reasons that were selfish. He figured if he inserted himself back into her life, he wouldn’t be bogged down by child support. It doesn’t work that way, the social worker tells him. He could see Rebbecca on the social worker’s terms, not his. So he disappeared again, leaving her to wonder if it had been a bad dream.

She had lots of those – waking clutching her stuffed piggy, soaking wet from tears and sweat, heart thumping so hard she could hardly catch her breath. Every few months, waking in a different place, with different people who were only too happy to have her so to cash the check that paid them for keeping this broken child. Foster care they called it. Always lots of kids, but always so alone. 

She was 10 when he came to the newest place, bringing dresses that were three sizes too big which she would never wear, or stuffed animals that would be taken away the minute he was gone by the foster monsters. He would ask if she wanted to come with him; she would just stare at him with her big blue eyes, begging him silently not to ask her that. The social worker, always in the background, would pipe up and tell him that is not an option. He visited two more days, but then was gone like a plastic bag twirling away in a dust devil, leaving her in relief but still very alone with the memories of a man who changed her life every time he saw her.

In her solitude, at 13, she became a voracious reader. Anything she could find in a school library or the book-mobile that came once a month. Rebbecca learned the term “estrangement,” and thought that was what had been going on with her father most of her life. The dictionary became her best friend.

 She was a good student, always at the top of her class. Her teachers praised her, even though she never truly felt it was deserved. The thing about being a foster is that no one really cares what she does, as long as she keeps quiet, does what she’s told and they keep getting their money every month to lavish on their “own” children.

The other thing that she did quite well was swim. She was allowed to be on the swim team, excelled in the 300 medley, and gathering up first place ribbons that she hid inside a ratty old Converse shoe box.

When he came again just before she turned 17, he had actually called the social worker and asked what I was like, what did I like to do or wear so he could try to get it right this time. The social worker told him that his daughter got high marks in school, loved to read, on the swim team, and was happy in t-shirts, jeans, and sneakers. She was not into makeup, or girly-type things. So when he approached her at the latest foster home, he told her that he was proud of her. Those words made her feel sick, and she didn’t know why. It was a mix of butterflies in her stomach plus the urge to throw up. Rebbecca had always wanted to hear that from someone who knew her, or possibly loved her, but it could not be him. Love was an unfamiliar word, as was the feeling. She remembered she loved her Mom, but could not feel it.

Her father came to see her every day for the next week, bringing her new books, new shirts, and new shoes. He watched her win another ribbon at a swim meet, and clapped louder than any other parent there. It was a peculiar feeling; not quite happiness, but not sadness, either. She wasn’t sure what she felt, but whatever it was, it started to spread throughout her chest to the tiny, closed-off heart. Rebbecca asked her father after the meet why he clapped. He told her again that he was very proud of her, and by the look of his soft gray eyes, he meant it.

He had to leave again, and this time, the first time, her tiny heart ached. He said he would be back soon, that he had to finish doing a few things that he hoped would make her proud, too. She wanted to tell him she hoped so too, but the fear was too strong, so she kept silent.

True to his word, her father did come back after a few months had gone by. He told the social worker that he bought a house that was close, and wanted to visit more. The social worker told him that it appeared as though he was finally getting it right, that finding roots and a meaningful relationship could only strengthen his appeal to the court in order to finally get his Rebbecca back. But being a longtime member of a club she never wanted to be in, the foster system, it was all she knew. She still had bad dreams, still could see the giant monster that was her father covered in her mother’s blood when she was that knobby-kneed little girl hiding in the closet. Could she ever trust him?

A month later, before the judge in Family Court, Rebbecca’s father laid out all the things he has been doing for the last 5 years. Having a steady job with benefits, paying the State for his daughter’s care, and buying his first home. He wanted to give her stability and not have to worry where she would have laid her head down next. He had tears in his eyes, and told the judge that he had so many regrets in his life, that he was a changed man, and could give his girl all she needed.

Rebbecca sat in the back row of the courtroom, listening and trying not to hold her breath. She was hearing things she had always wanted, but still had that deep seated fear down in her soul. The judge then looked at her and asked if she had anything to say. After taking several deep breathes, she stood and faced the man who had destroyed her entire world so long ago. She had a thousand questions swirling around in her head, and trying to grasp at the very one that meant the most. 

As she started to speak, she stopped, remembering that word, “estrangement.” He had drifted in and out of her life like a firefly on the breeze. He had never written letters or sent birthday cards. She never knew when he would show up, or the reasons why each time he did. He never once said he was sorry for doing those horrific things to her and the terror he caused when he killed her mother. 

All those feelings came rushing like a river overflowing the banks that kept it reigned in. She was three months from turning 18, had earned scholarships to an Ivy League school, and plans that didn’t have him in it. That tiny heart ached once more, squeezing tight as she trembled, and she said two words: “Why now?” She then turned and walked out of the courtroom, into the warmth of the golden sunshine, and came to the realization of estrangement. It’s a two-way street, and she’s left him at a dead end.